


Love in the Tower of Babel

by ShevatheGun



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A little of column a, A little of column b, Arguing, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Prompt Fill, Terok Nor (Star Trek), Translator glitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: One afternoon, the universal translators go out on Terok Nor.





	Love in the Tower of Babel

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write Naprain things that aren't set in any specific universe. This is one of those things. From the OTP Prompt: "What if the translators broke?"

It takes all of two minutes for her mother to figure out what’s going on – and of course it wouldn’t take any longer than that. It takes two minutes more for Ziyal to understand her.

“They’re  _out_ ,” her mother says again, forcefully.

“Oh,  _out_!” Ziyal clarifies, flushing with embarrassment. “‘Out.’ What was that word you were using before?”

Her mother repeats it. It sounds no more familiar than it did the first time.

It’s only five minutes until her father arrives. He strides in, tail lashing with unease, flanked by Glinn Damar and Dalin Renul. His eyes land on her mother and Ziyal sees his whole body relax.

“Naprem,” he says, taking her mother by the shoulders. “You’re alright. Thank goodness.”

“I’ll head back to Ops,” Damar says, grimacing over at Ziyal like she’s an affront to his senses, per usual.

It’s only five minutes more before her mother and father are arguing.

“We have to keep the masses—” what word does he use? ‘Tranquil’? ‘Pacified,’ maybe? Or ‘docile’. Something like that. Not the nicest word he could use, Ziyal knows that much. “If they realize we’re—you don’t understand me.”

Her mother all but throws her hands up, looking like she wants to strangle him. “Tell him I understand him just fine,” she tells Ziyal.

“She clearly isn’t understanding my position,” her father says when she tells him, waving his hand dismissively.

“Just because I don’t agree with him, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” her mother says.

“Naprem,  _please_ , you know I can’t understand you when you speak that way.”

“In my  _native tongue_ , you mean?!”

Ziyal’s father doesn’t understand the words, but the volume level translates just fine.

Five minutes later, Ziyal’s translating for them – for her father, she translates her mother’s words. For her mother, she translates her father’s intent. 

“Tell her that if we don’t find a way to—” Prophets, what is that word? ‘Pacify’? ‘Neutralize’? “—the workers, we risk Cardassian lives. Every minute we spend here arguing places my men in greater jeopardy.”

Ziyal turns to her mother. “He’s just—”

“I heard what he said, Ziyal!” her mother snaps. She covers her face with both hands, says an entire sentence to herself that Ziyal doesn’t understand that ends with, “…doesn’t mean—Prophets, please don’t translate for him. Make him listen on his own.”

“I can’t  _understand_  you,” her father says plaintively.

“Yes,” her mother says, clasping her hands in front of herself. “Yes, you can. You’re just not trying.”

Ziyal’s father turns to her, shaking his head a little.

Five minutes later, her mother and father are sitting across from one another on the sectional. Her mother has her arms folded. Her father is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. Ziyal sits between them, looking back and forth, waiting for one of them to speak first.

Finally, her mother sighs and unfolds her arms. She scoots forward on the sectional and taps her ear with one finger. Ziyal’s father blinks, looks over at her, then looks back at her mother. He shakes his head a little and shrugs, watching her.

“Listen,” she says, carefully, enunciating each syllable very carefully.

“I’m listening,” her father says, likely guessing the right word from context.

Her mother says another series of words that Ziyal can’t understand. Her father squints but pauses.

“Say it again,” he says, not a little plaintively.

Her mother repeats it, and Ziyal looks between them, and scoots forward, determined to hear what her father’s hearing.

“That isn’t Bajoran,” her father says, thoughtfully. “What is that?”

“It’s Bajoran,” her mother says.

“You have an accent,” her father says, wonder breaking over his face.

“Yes,” her mother sighs.

“Is that… a different dialect? You speak a different dialect?” Her father shakes his head. “I never heard it before. The translator doesn’t pick up on it.”

“I’m from—” ‘Eastern’? Oh, yes, yes! ‘Eastern,’ “Province. It’s a local dialect from there.”

“It’s beautiful,” her father says, without embarrassment.

Her mother flushes, which makes Ziyal squirm with discomfort. She always feels so embarrassed when her parents flirt.

“You’re not going to flatter me into helping you with the mine workers,” her mother says. 

“Forget about the mine workers,” her father says. “Say something else. I want to listen to you talk for hours.” 

“What—you can’t just ignore them, this station—” She says a whole string of words Ziyal doesn’t understand, but her father’s looking at her like she’s made of jedite.

“You know,” he says. “Maybe I’ll tell Damar not to spend too much time fixing the translators. This could be a very educational experience for all of us, don’t you think?” 

“You’re,” ‘absurd’? ‘Ridiculous’? A strange fusion word that’s half one, half the other, said the same way you’d say both ‘silly’ and ‘adorable’. “You understand that if this goes on much longer, everyone’s going to notice that your comprehension of spoken Bajoran is much higher than you let on?”

Ziyal’s father makes his face blank.

“I didn’t understand you just then,” he says.

“Ziyal, leave the room, I don’t want you to have to watch me murder your father.”

“ _Naprem_ ,” Ziyal’s father says, frowning. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what? I thought you couldn’t understand me.”

“I understand  _death threats_ , obviously,” her father scoffs.

Her mother grabs the pillow off the sectional and goes after him with it. Ziyal scrambles off the sectional and into her room, not because she’s expecting violence, but because, less than a minute later, her mother shrieks with laughter, and then the talking gets very soft, and she’s glad, for once, that she can’t understand most of it. 


End file.
